Brothers
by fairious
Summary: On a cold December night, once again, a silent form of a teenage Sherlock Holmes sits vigil, contemplatting the night sky above. He is turning over one solitary thought in his ever racing mind, "I don't need them. I am always alone. I don't need anyone." And as he continues this mantra of sorts to ease his worried mind, a new thought arises- Would anyone miss me if I was to die...?


_No one understands me…_

_No one cares…_

_Would anyone notice-_

_-Or would dying be playing fair?_

...

In the cold, inky blackness of that night, no one, especially at this late hour, would have been able to notice the faint outline of the boy on the rooftop, gazing up at the faint stars above. It was only up here, at this hour, that he felt he could finally escape, at least for a little while, the life he could accurately describe as Sherlock Holmes's own living hell. Despite the ever declining temperatures being brought upon him by the howling wind, he sat, quite unaffected, and rather continued his silent vigil of the night sky, mind racing, as it had always been prone to do.

_I don't need them. I am always alone. I don't need anyone._

As he sat deep in concentration, his limbs tightly knotted together, these lines continued to dart across his mind one after the other. Their repetition was like that of a sort of religious mantra he repeated over and over again, as if he was convincing himself of some unspeakable truth that he must accept all the same.

_ I don't need them. I am always alone. I don't need anyone._

_I don't need them. I am always alone. I don't need anyone._

On and on, always the same thoughts, as if through repetition, he would be able to actually believe it to be truth. In a way, as he sat alone in the night, he was attempting to almost brainwash himself into this state of mind, trying to keep all thought but this from his head-willing himself to think of _**nothing else**_**.**

_I don't need them. I am always alone. I don't need anyone._

_I don't need them. I am always alone. I don't need anyone._

_I don't need them. I am always alone. I don't need anyone…__**Do I?**_

At long last, he broke his concentration, delivering a mutter of obscenities to the sky as he fell back to lie down upon the cold hard tile of his previous perch. Seeing that effort as a lost cause, he mentally took note that hypnosis was not going to be adequate measure of his reassurance and that he was going to have to think of something else instead. Returning to his gaze of the sky, Sherlock's mind once again began to wander along that dark contemplation he regarded as the bane of his existence; his emptiness within his heart. Despite the front he displayed to all he made eye contact with, he secretly longed for some companionship- something that was worth his existence in this miserable life he called his own. Someone…who cared…

But all the same, he had learned from the start he was better off being alone. He was different, in every respect from everyone around him. People saw him as a freak, as heartless, _an alien_ compared to them. No one wanted to be caught being seen with such an outsider, so therefore, Sherlock took it upon himself to shut himself out from emotion; so as to never feel the hurt of the abandonment he knew still festered within him.

Though he was still only 16, he knew for a fact no one was ever going to care for him so the logical solution was to not care for anyone else. He was well accustomed to the silence of abandonment and the feeling of being utterly alone so he didn't see it as much of a change when he made up his mind to cut himself off from everyone else.

The surprising fact of the matter however was that, at one time, he wasn't like this at all, back when his father was still alive. _Things have been so different since_… Sherlock unconsciously thought to himself, and at once shook himself again, cursing at his stupidity of his wandering mind. _He was never to think of that, sentiment is a factor of the losing side. Caring is not an advantage. I have to be alone. Alone protects me…Alone protects me…_

In spite of himself, Sherlock found that tears were beginning to fall from his eyes and though he tried to hold in the pain, his suffering he refused to exhibit to _anyone_; the tears still fell all the same. Frustrated, confused, and overwhelmed, Sherlock was reduced to a sobbing heap despite his mind racing with internal damnation- _He was supposed to not have emotions. He was supposed to lock them all away. He was a sociopath and that was final. But why could he not bring himself to stop?_

The overwhelming dam of emotions was breaking and Sherlock was not going to take much more. He _tried and tried_ to push it back, back to the depths of his mind but despite his efforts, nothing would work. All the same, he refused to accept defeat. _He would not let the emotion take over- he would stop it himself…because this hurts too much…_

Finally, an idea arose much to his avail. No one wanted him, no one needed him, and no one would care if he wiped away his existence…right? He mentally regarded his options once he was able to get a grip on his breathing. _No one cares about me, I for sure don't - so why not end it? Might as well get it over with now- I'm close enough to the edge anyway…_ He looked down at the pavement from his position as he loomed over the edge of the rooftop- _Did it hurt to die? Should I do this? Is this how my life should end?_

As all these questions ran rapidly past him, Sherlock stumbled and backed slowly away from the wall. _Would he really be able to take his own life? What was going to happen to him?_

It was then that Sherlock realized that he was not as alone as he thought he had been- as standing behind the tallest chimney stack emerged Mycroft-turning Sherlock's fear into that of rage in the span of less than a millisecond.

"So, decided you've had enough of life, Sherlock? Getting you down, is it?" Mycroft questioned, in the way only he could; menacing, concerned, and conniving all at once. Sherlock's short temper and unaccustomed emotional state got the best of him as he exclaimed,

"What of it, Mycroft? Did you come to see me off-to push me yourself? YOU'RE THE ONE WHO OUGHT TO DIE- IT'S YOUR FAULT DAD'S DEAD!"

Sherlock hurled the words like sabers at his brother; he despised every aspect of his smug appearance, wanted to hurl himself at him and punch every inch of him he could manage.

Despite seeing the danger signs of Sherlock's fury, Mycroft seemed unaffected and unabashed. In fact, he looked rather disappointed in Sherlock's attempt to spark fury into him. He remarked coolly, "You know as well as I, Sherlock, that neither of us is responsible for his death, it was a tragic accident as you very well know. Nothing could have been done. Why do you feel such self hatred? Mother and I are worried about you- you've cut yourself off from everyone. Why?" He added in a tone of actual sincerity for once.

"_You liar_- no one understands, no one gets it. I'm a freak and I'm a sociopath as well. No one cares about me- not you, not mum, not even dad when he was alive. As you've told me before-_caring is not an advantage_- so look now, _Mycroft_- I don't even care about living anymore." Sherlock grinned in spite of himself as he now saw his words to inflict pain upon his brother. _Good, he deserves to be hurt- I don't care about __anyone__._

Mycroft stared back at Sherlock, barely daring to whisper, and replied, "Do you mean that Sherlock? You _really_ think that? Why would you want to die- and how can you think I don't care about you? Sherlock- _please,"_ Sherlock shivered at the observation that his brother, _the man of ice_, was beginning to cry. "Please, Sherlock. You are all I have left. Don't jump."

Hearing the plea, still in disbelief at the apparent completely different side to his brother, Sherlock slowly backed away from the ledge of the rooftop. "Why shouldn't I die?" he almost whispered, dreading the answer.

"Because though caring is not an advantage, and all lives end, Sherlock, your life shouldn't end just because you wish it. You need to carry on, be a sociopath even, because life is worth living, no matter what hardships we face. Do you understand?" He added, reverting back to his cool, collected nature he so frequently exhibited.

Sherlock, realizing with a twinge, that Mycroft was right, got off the ledge completely. Refusing to acknowledge however his brother's existence so he could boast how he was right, Sherlock pushed past him and retreated back to the house, stalking in frustration once again.

Mycroft softly laughed to himself, his brother was always going to be so stubborn that he probably would never mention tonight's events ever again. All the same, he wouldn't have it any other way- they were always going to hate each other but would always be brothers all the same.

…..


End file.
